


the afterlife (i never really lived)

by TooRational



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst and Feels, Didn't Know They Were In Love, Dorks in Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Love Confessions, M/M, Patrick Stump Loves Pete Wentz, Patrick Stump is Bad at Words, Podfic Welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:42:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21726205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooRational/pseuds/TooRational
Summary: The thing is, everyone needs to hear what they mean to people sometimes.Or: In the wake ofCoup de Main's "Fall Out Boy - 17 years of friendship" article, Patrick tries to explain to Pete how he feels.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 39
Kudos: 79





	the afterlife (i never really lived)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, new fandom! *waves shyly* You seem awesome, mind if I join? <3
> 
> Inspired by [this set of pictures](https://toorational.tumblr.com/post/189561948127/maniacardigan-maniacardigan-x-hi) by [maniacardigan](https://maniacardigan.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr. Title from "Saturday", of course.
> 
> Huge thanks to the two lovely ladies that welcomed me into the fandom, [carbonbased000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carbonbased000/) and [andwhatyousaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andwhatyousaid/). You're both the best, and I can't thank you enough for your support. <3
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Lies, untruths, complete fabrication, made for fun. Imagine we're in an alternate universe in which a butterfly batted its wings and, like, something something *mumble* ~LOVE! Blessings on all these lovely people and their loved ones, may they live in happiness and health for a very, very long time. (And if you dare bother them, I'm personally going to kick the shit out of your disrespectful ass. You've been warned.)

"— and in this stack are the 'favorite things about your bandmates' polaroids, they should be in alphabetical order. 'kay?"

Patrick nods and smiles at the intern, and hopes his face doesn't look as sour as he feels.

God, he hates these kinds of questions. What the hell is he supposed to write?

He scribbles 'Andy', 'Joe', and 'Pete' so he doesn't mix the pics up, and then stops.

Well, the first two are simple enough, it's what he thought of when they took the pictures. He writes ' _He's the glue that holds it together_ ' for Andy, ' _Hilarious_ ' for Joe, and then stalls.

Across from him, Pete doesn't seem to have any problems; his polaroids are already done and he's scrolling away on his phone.

Patrick stifles a sigh and considers what to write.

_'He forces me to believe in myself, has done so from back when I didn't think I could sing, and is still the person who believes in me more than anyone else, including myself'_

_'The gremlin that stole my soul'_

No, someone would take that seriously.

_'The only person I trust implicitly when it comes to music; most of our songs wouldn't exist without him or his words'_

Ugh.

_'Pete's the first one I talk to when I'm down, the one I share my happiness with; he's the most stable thing in my life and always was, even when he wasn't there'_

_'Best friend'_

Really? Third grade called, Patrick, they want the friendship bracelet back.

_'He was and is the defining force in my life, the most significant factor, the magnetic north that keeps changing my life for the better, over and over again'_

Patrick tries really, really hard not to facepalm. Or slam his head against the desk.

It's just that all of these sound so... inadequate. What Pete is to him, what he continues to be with every passing day, is impossible to put into mere words. He's... _Pete_. The man contains multitudes and all.

And there's not enough space on the fucking polaroid for any of it. Nor a fraction of it.

 _He'd_ know what to say, of course. Pete. He can express his feelings through words in ways that are downright supernatural. The way he pinpoints the precise feeling you're having, fashions out an uncanny metaphor out of the unlikeliest word combinations, is nothing short of magic.

All Patrick has is music. And it's not like he's insecure or something; he knows that's pretty cool, too. If anything, age brought with it a certain type of freedom in that sense. Patrick is now more than ever willing to experiment, try new stuff. Confidence is a state of mind he is liking quite a bit, in the last few years.

But words, words are still difficult. Sure, he can talk for days on end about Star Wars, or languages, or the history of music, but ask him to articulate what he's _feeling_ in any given moment, and he's on the ' _tree pretty/fire bad_ ' level.

If they asked to set who Pete is to him to music, however, he'd have a whole discography to point to. So many songs, so many verses, so many weird tunes and snippets of melodies. The way Pete makes him feel cannot fit into a symphony. There aren't enough hours in the day to listen to all the music Pete's made of. There's thousands of melodies associated with Pete cluttering up Patrick's mind.

He finally gives up, frustrated, and writes down 'good buddy'. They used a ridiculous picture of Patrick for it, in any case, but it was an automatic reaction. He thinks 'Pete' and sometimes, _sometimes_ , his arms open, ready for the hug.

Most times he controls it, though. It's not smart, having too much contact with Pete. Patrick fears he might lose himself in him, melt and mix until they're one being, one thought; and then what? Who would _that_ Patrick be, when even _this_ one has trouble drawing the line between them sometimes?

Patrick throws the sharpie on the desk and stretches out, earning a distracted smile from Pete, still mostly engrossed in his phone.

Well, if nothing, Pete is going to cackle like a hyena when he sees what Patrick wrote. And anything that brings Pete joy is worth a little (or _a lot_ ; probably a lot) of teasing over.

***

Famous last _fucking_ words, because when he sees what Pete wrote a few minutes later, it hurts like a punch in the gut.

There's a panicked, terrifying moment of 'there is no fucking way he's not going to hate you for this; you really fucked this one up, Stump' even though he knows, he _knows_ Pete would never leave him, would never stop being his friend willingly. If anything, Pete has a history of turning himself inside out to please Patrick, get him the opportunities he feels Patrick deserves, the recognition and praise that, no matter how high, never seems adequate in Pete's mind. Even when they were both acting like assholes, even at his lowest point, hurt so bad he was hemorrhaging feelings and sanity all over the place, Pete never stopped caring. He never stopped being Patrick's best friend.

His other half, apparently; _fuck_.

Patrick returns the polaroid to its stack and hopes Pete forgets about it.

Hopes _he_ 'll forget about it, too.

***

Amazingly, he _does_.

It's simultaneously the smartest _and_ the stupidest thing he could've done.

Story of Patrick's life.

***

The article comes out and Patrick is done for. Finished. There's nowhere to hide now.

Within hours, the internet is cracking jokes about Patrick being way too cool as opposed to Pete's usual exuberance when it comes to each other, and Patrick's gut fills with rocks.

He's going to be sick.

"Hey, what's up?" Pete says, dropping onto the couch next to him with the force of a smaller hurricane.

"Nothing."

Pete squints at him. "Really."

Patrick nods, shooting a quicksilver smile Pete's way, then turns back towards the TV.

The TV that's currently turned off.

Fuck.

"C'mon. Patrick? Patrick, I _know you_ , man, and you're freaking out about something. Just tell me what it is."

Pete pokes at his shoulder, and Patrick just knows he's going to start chanting 'tell me tell me _tell me_ ' in a few seconds, and then Patrick will crack anyway (or crack Pete over the head with the remote, whatever), and—

Patrick gets his computer, navigates to the article and shoves the entire poisonous thing at Pete.

The mix of relief and sky-high anxiety makes him a little dizzy.

Pete gives him a funny look, but settles in to read without a comment.

"Yeah?" he says a few minutes later, "I know all this, I was there, remember?"

Patrick feels foolish, and it makes him snap. "The polaroid, Pete. And you just _try_ to tell me it's not a big deal, I'll—"

"Which polaroid, there was a dozen."

Patrick blinks at him. "What do you mean, _which polaroid_? Mine, _my_ polaroid, the one with the stupidest answer _ever_ , are you really that—"

Patrick swallows whatever derogatory term was about to come out of his mouth because this is his 'fight' reflex talking.

Pete just looks at him, calm and patient.

It's a new thing, a post-reunion parent-type thing, this calm persona, and it's incredibly effective. Patrick hates Pete a little when he does it because it forces him to act like an adult, too, when he'd rather kick and scream and throw a tantrum. Tantrums are so much more satisfying than behaving like A Grownup.

"I'm sorry, okay? I never know what to answer, or write, in this case, and I always either go too far or not nearly enough, and I hate it. I fucking _hate it_."

"Patrick ..."

"Don't. I wish I could just find this magical land of saying what I want to say, of putting what's on the inside into words, but I can't. You're the one with all the words. You always gave them to me, and I got used to speaking through you. You understand me so well, there was never any need. You look at me and you just _know_. And I take it for granted, I know I do, I always did, but I can't help it."

Pete swallows, eyes huge and luminous, trained on Patrick's.

"You're a part of me by now. You have to know that. Like a limb, or a lung, or all the blood vessels and nerves that connect all the parts of a body, but _more_. I can't imagine my life without you in it. I _don't want to_."

"Patrick..."

"So you— You have to know that the fact that I don't— _can't_ talk about it like you do doesn't mean I don't feel it, doesn't— It's just so— big, and— and overwhelming, and—"

" _Patrick_. I— I already know," Pete interrupts gently, the touch of his hand on Patrick's shoulder burning like a brand.

"...what?" Patrick says in a small voice, because that doesn't make sense.

"I know, of course I do. You say it with every single song. Every time you come back to me. With every look you don't think I see, or know how to read. I do know. I see them, I see _you_. And I love you, too. You know that. You don't have to have the words, I never expected them."

Relief Patrick expected (Pete knows!), even the tiny bit of fear (Pete _knows_!), but the disappointment comes out of the left field. Disappointment in himself, for not pushing out of his comfort zone, for making Pete settle for _knowing_ but never _hearing_ that Patrick cares.

How insecure, how selfish is Patrick, that he can't tell the most important person in his life how much he means to him?

And for what, to avoid embarrassment? Pete already knows, the whole _world_ already knows.

To avoid heartbreak? Well. It would have happened by now, wouldn't it? If the last fifteen plus years have taught Patrick anything, it's that Pete doesn't give up on him, not ever.

The thing is, everyone needs to hear what they mean to people sometimes.

 _Pete_ deserves to hear it.

"Pete...."

Why is this so difficult? Patrick's mouth is dry, his heart is pounding like he just flat out ran a mile, and he can't look away from the molten gold of Pete's eyes.

_Just say it, you coward._

"You- you have to know I lo- I love you."

And just like that, it's like a dam crumbles to dust inside his chest.

"I _love_ you. I've loved you for _years_ , and I probably will till the day I die. I don't see that changing, _ever_. There isn't anything in this world I wouldn't do for you. I—"

The words dry out, as always, so Patrick winds down with a soft: "I just— I'm sorry it took so long but. I really do. Love you. Very, very much."

Pete is— Pete is _a mess_ , emotions almost visibly spilling around him as he sniffs and snorts, kind of, covering for damp eyes with a twisted mouth and a self-deprecating smirk.

Patrick's heart jumps like a spooked horse, hand clasped tightly in his lap.

"I knew, 'course I did, I don't know why I'm so—"

And it's Pete's shaky exhale that does it.

Because Patrick's been on edge for what feels like hours, and he's tired and elated and spent, but Pete still doesn't get it, not completely, not the depth of what Patrick's _feeling_.

And because Patrick has no fucking words, as usual. Patrick can't say out loud what he feels, he never could, so he gives up on that and tries something else.

He cups Pete's face carefully, so gently, and kisses him.

And oh, _oh god_.

It's funny; it took him so long, and they went through so much crap, when all this time the solution was so simple. Everything inside him, this ocean of feelings, it spills through his lips and into Pete so easily.

Why didn't he think of this earlier? Or better yet, why was he so resistant to the mere idea of it? Sure, the prickling of Pete's beard, the scratch of it against his own, is weird and new, but Patrick barely notices it beneath the relief sweeping through him in a tidal wave.

This, _this_ is the way to go when words fail him, when the feelings grow so strong within him, it's like a pressure cooker shaking and rattling inside his chest. Just— just touch, kiss, _connect_. He suddenly understands why Pete likes this, why he goes in for a hug, or a pat on the back, or why he sits close whenever he can get away with it. Pete—

Pete's not breathing.

Patrick pulls back in a panic, their lips unlocking with a barely audible sound, and tries to figure out the look on Pete's face.

Stunned? Surprised? Is this a good or a bad reaction? All of Patrick's mind-reading skills, the famous cryptophasia they brag about, fail him miserably.

If he fucked this up, he'll—

He doesn't know what he'll do. The mind _boggles_ at the sheer enormity of potential consequences; fear is all that's left.

Apologize apologize _apologize right now, fix this immediately_!

"I— I'm sorry, so sorry, I just— it's— I— um, I don't know what I—"

Words, fucking _words_.

Patrick _hates them_.

Pete blinks, sucks in a sharp breath, and puts his hand over Patrick's mouth.

The world is silent and still for a few moments, and Patrick gets distracted by the vulnerable stretch of skin at Pete's temple, how it curves around Pete's eyes and into the softness of the cheek. He wants to touch so, _so bad_ , but he _can't_.

"I—" Pete says, and Patrick refocuses, feels Pete's hand slip away from Patrick's mouth, sees precisely the moment Pete gets distracted because his gaze drops to Patrick's lips and—

Pete lurches forward a little, movement awkward and stuttering, and breathes out "Can— can I—" into the space between them, and this is completely ridiculous, it was _Patrick_ who kissed Pete first, there's no need to ask, _what the actual_ —

Pete slides his palms around Patrick's neck and into his hair, thumbs tucked in front of Patrick's ears, and Patrick doesn't have the time to enjoy the feeling of being cherished, nor the shivers still running through him from the slide of Pete's fingertips against his scalp, he just closes his eyes and sways forward into Pete's lips.

No, he didn't imagine it, he _didn't_ , it's—

Patrick gives up on rational thought and sinks into the kiss, into Pete, like flinging yourself off a cliff propels you deep into the water below. And while he would have to surface from the water sooner or later, Patrick kind of never wants to leave this place, this moment in time.

It works, in a way. A tender-and-swollen-lips amount of time later, Pete falls back onto the couch slowly, holding onto Patrick and pulling him down with him. Patrick catches himself on one hand awkwardly, trying to keep from crushing Pete, as their faces kind of smush together for a second.

"Stop that," Pete murmurs while doing unspeakable things to the sensitive skin of Patrick's neck, and kind of buckles until he manages to slide Patrick's hand from its position. He entwines their fingers, palm to palm, lifting them above their heads, and hums in satisfaction as Patrick's entire weight settles on top of him.

Patrick wants to protest but his breath is gone, his words are gone, everything but the giant nerve that is his body and his awareness of Pete is gone gone _gone_. Pete took it all when he brought their lips back together, slick-smooth and all-consuming; when he wrapped himself around Patrick, tight and warm and comforting.

He welcomes the overload, welcomes _Pete_ inside what feels his ripped-wide-open ribcage, with everything he is.

It feels like coming home.

***

He wakes up with a start, sweaty and disoriented, stuck between the back of the couch and Pete in a position not unlike the skeletons on the cover of their Greatest Hits album; only closer. Much, _much_ closer.

Oh, right.

There's an odd pause in his brain as it tries to kick in, possibly freak out, but all it spits out is static. Patrick squirms, grimaces at the way his clothes are bunched up and stretched around him in uncomfortable ways.

 _Jesus_ , they haven't even taken anything off. It's like a delirious, embarrassing flashback to the fumbling attempts at intimacy in his teens, only... better. _So much_ better.

He looks at Pete, sleeping peacefully two inches away, mussed up and precious.

_Fuck it._

Patrick squirms a little more, finds a comfortable position — as much as possible with Pete's arms wrapped around him and unwilling to let go — and sneaks out his hand to touch.

Because he _can_ now. It's still kind of unbelievable.

Forehead, temple, eye crinkles, cheekbone, under the eye, bridge of the nose, back the same way, detour to the undercut, hair bristling and prickling his fingers like saying 'hi, hello, Patrick; _welcome_ '. The longer strands of hair next to it in a delicious contrast. The vulnerable curve of his skull, fitting perfectly into Patrick's hand, covering the weird, strange, brilliant brain within.

The squishiness of Pete's big heart, capable of so much love, beating away in his chest.

To think Patrick's been trusted with all that.

Just. _Fuck it_.

He'll pencil in freak out as soon as he finds his notebook.

For now, Patrick touches and touches and _touches_ , carefully, softly, ready to wait for as long as it takes for Pete's eyes to open.

He's got all the time in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me at the [Tumblrz](https://toorational.tumblr.com/).


End file.
